The Streets of Blizsta

This will be my last post for a little while as I'm off to la belle France. Many readers will wonder how I could possibly bear to leave dear old Blizsta. Well, let me tell you: first, thanks to the kredditkrunsch, Blizsta is far from what it was. Where once stood bright-windowed stores purveying over-expensive tat to Albians with more money than sense, now there stand row upon row of steel blinds covering closed-down branches of Wottat, UMF and the like(1), garish posters boasting exclusive (and desperate) "sale previews" with up to 75% off, or bored shop assistants, gazing idly out from their desks onto the street and wondering how long it will be before the company decides it can't afford to pay them to sit around all day while their till accumulates dust. Frankly, the only silver lining is that among the very worst affected are the estate agents, some of whom are now so wretched they can't even get up the energy to lie to their clients.

Secondly, thanks both to the kredditkrunsch and to the appalling prices hostelries charge these days, half the pubs in Blizsta seem to have closed down. I confess, I have been known to enjoy more than my fair share of grim and solitary daytime drinks - it is, along with the trenchcoat and press-pass in the hat-ribbon of the trilby, an essential part of the business of being a hack - but even I draw the line at sharing my drinking with nothing more than one dead fly and what was either a very large rat-dropping or a woodlouse.

Thirdly, even drinking at home has become impossible, given that the booze aisles of Albia's supermarkets - which have done their bit for problem-drinking by offering a free stomach-pump with every 42-pack of heavily-discounted lager - are so jammed full of would-be-alcoholic teenagers that your actual-alcoholic reporter can hardly manage to squeeze his way through to that extra-large, buy-one-get-6-free bottle of the not-so-very-good-stuff.

Fourthly, my enforced cellar-mate, Shadow Finance Minister Geroj Skweeki(2) snores, loudly and in a manner like unto the sounds of the poor victim of the pig-sticking in Jude the Obscure. One more disturbed night and I fear it might be necessary to repeat that bleak bit of Thomas Hardy with Geroj in the starring role.

And fifthly, thanks to the above points, plus the facts (a) that the buggers in charge of Albia's companies seem to have unanimously decided to save their bonuses by cancelling all staff parties throughout the land and (b) just about everyone expects to be out of a job come January 1st, each and every person you meet in Albia at the moment is absolutely bloody miserable.

So that, dear reader, is why I'm quitting these shores for the next few days. Frankly, if it weren't for the fact the value of the Albian pahnd against the euro has dropped to the kind of altitudes normally occupied by Ronnie Corbett's navel, I'd be doing my damndest to stay there as long as possible.

See you bright, early and terribly hungover in the New Year for the annual Message from Albia awards ceremony. Until then I hope you have a Joyeux Noël, God knows nobody in Albia will.

(1) See Shopping Tripped.
(2) See The Man Who Wasn't There.

Please Police Me

I'm often told that the business of watching politics here in Albia is dizzying. This is, in truth, literally so: the constant U-turns by government and opposition alike always threatening to induce a powerful sensation of vertigo in any onlooker(1).

The latest reversal comes from Albia's esteemed Home Minister, Jerki Kleevij, who used the estimable pages of Da Garindua to announce her decision to abandon plans for direct elections to police authorities. I must say this comes as a great blow: I had been looking forward to watching from the sidelines as, say, members of the Bear Baiting Alliance insisted that police in their area refrain from arresting rural types for such minor offences as setting mantraps in their apple orchards or flogging ramblers who stray a centimetre from the public footpath, or Dikki Tvot, the bearded, millionaire self-publicist, called for local constabulary to adopt his Nymmfo brand name. In fact I myself had planned to run on a platform of stopping police raids on public house lock-ins but then someone offered me another drink and I forgot all about it.

(1) A similar effect can be achieved by watching the violent gyrations of senior ABC management over the latest phone-voting scandals on Strictly Blow Football.

The Albia Who's Who: Jerki Kleevij

Albia's Home Minister. Ms Kleevij's appointment by Bragdny Door was initially seen as a masterstroke, bringing a woman to the post for the first time. Those commentators who had, in the traditional patronising manner, warned that the appointment of a female to the role would result in new off-the-shoulder uniforms for police officers, the 24-hour-a-day screening of Sex and the City in immigration detention centres and all members of the secret service, SM5, being forced to look like the "dishy" male lead of ABC's Zpookz, were swiftly proved wrong when Ms Kleevij turned out to be, if anything, somewhat to the right even of such predecessors as Ruud Eerz and Fanatik Loon and apparently wholly unaware that "human rights" mean more than "the right to do exactly what the government wants you to do and nothing else". Ms Kleevij has, admittedly, brought her own unique style to the post of Home Minister. Sadly, that style is a mix of the linguistic armamentarium of a senior Human Resources manager and the charisma and authority of a Social Studies supply teacher.

Horz Kreepiman

Formerly simply Piotr Kreepiman, now elevated to a Horzship following his return to government after a stint as Albia's European Commissioner.

An endlessly controversial figure, Horz Kreepiman spent much of the last 30 years at the heart of the Krep party machine, first as campaign co-ordinator and later as BG for Mooshipiz. His doubtless enormous political skills have been repeatedly compromised by his moth-like attraction to the flame of wealth, which has led to him repeatedly being discovered bashing into the windows of the rich and famous at night in an attempt to get closer to the plutocrats inside.

Horz Kreepiman is often seen as the eminence noire behind the Noy Krep Party and was close to both the former PM Kiznya Schlop and his successor Bragdny Door (with whom he has had a spectacular hate-hate relationship ever since supplying Mr Schlop with the rohypnol he used to convince Mr Door not to run for the party leadership). He is regarded as a brilliant and ruthless political opponent and - now that he has returned to government - it is said that his dark eye burns forever in his great tower, ready to turn swiftly against any foe.

The Last Post

Long-time readers of this blog(1) will be unsurprised to hear that yesterday Horz Kreepiman - that horrible growing sense of a hostile will that strives with great power to pierce all shadows of cloud, and earth, and flesh, and to see you: to pin you under its deadly gaze, naked, immovable(2) - announced plans to part-privatise Albia's postal service, the Albiansk Rojjal Zpozt or ARZ. The news will come as little surprise both because the ARZ delivers mail with the same regularity that Albia's Nochanz national lottery delivers me a winning number and because the government solemnly pledged before the last election to keep the ARZ in public ownership.

Over the years the ARZ has, admittedly, made many attempts to improve its service. However, given that these attempts included cutting down the number of collections and deliveries and rendering it necessary to have a detailed understanding of M-theory and multi-dimensional spaces in order simply to calculate the correct postage for one's Christmas cards, it has long been clear that the service was doomed.

(1) come on, I'm sure there must be some of you.
(2) a description borrowed, I confess, from children's writer and crashing languages bore, JRR Tolkien.

Party Like It's 1349

I'm afraid my newsgathering faculties are a little less than sharp today, having spent much of yesterday at a party hosted by the Albian Broadcasting Corporation. My overseas readers, along with those Albians who get their news from papers such as Da Tytz and Da Heyt, may at this point be picturing some sort of modern Bacchanal, replete with over-indulging celebrities, naked staff in painted-on suits serving champagne and dwarfs carrying bowls of cocaine on their head. Unfortunately, that would be to picture one of Freddie Mercury's parties in the early 1980s.

ABC parties(1) are a rather different affair. As a regular attendee (the potato-based alcohol is, initially at least, free and a fellow with a decent siphon and a cunning plastic lining to his jacket pockets can stock up a pretty decent supply) I am able to illustrate this point by revealing the exclusive venues in which the parties were held for the last few years.

• 2005 - the defective lift of the main ABC building. I particularly remember the canapes that year, which included (as far as I could gather) catfood blinis, rat goujons and boiled okra wrapped with bacon
• 2006 - a cardboard box in central Blizsta.
  
• 2007 - the old ABC coal-cellar, which had been decked out with a mirror ball either in a doomed attempt to make the place seem a little festive or in an even more doomed effort to distract attendees from the overwhelming air of despair that comes with any ABC event.
  

This year, the "party" was held at Rattnerz, a long-established Blizstan eatery, now most famed for having been awarded minus-237 out of 10 in a recent review by Da Garindua's food columnist, who somehow failed to appreciate the restaurant's famous yaksurijn soup. In any event, after four hours of 300-odd people standing around in a space with room enough for seventeen, food enough for twelve and air enough for five, several of us repaired to the good old Bor yt Hunza for a few swift ones. All went well until a small party decided to splash about in the ByH's "new indoor water feature". Should I have pointed out the ominous proximity of the blocked urinal to them? On mature, coffee-ibuprofen-and-regret-filled reflection, I think perhaps I should.

(1) save those reserved for the top executives, naturally, which are held on an exotic island paradise purchased by the ABC solely for the purpose.

We Don't Need Another Heroes

Unaccountably(1), I somehow missed an absolute gem from last week's political news. It seems that the initial acclaim delivered to Prime Minister Bragdny Door's rapidly-unraveling financial rescue-plan may have gone to the PM's head. I say this because, during last Wednesday's Prime Ministers Questions(3), Mr Door's tongue slipped briefly (and Freudianly) but long enough to announc that he had not merely saved the economy, but saved the whole world.

While this would ordinarily have been a cause for mirth, it seems the PM meant his statement to be taken absolutely seriously, as became clear when members of his Number 1o Quaffing Ztraht staff announced that, as part of his world-saving programme, he had already "saved the cheerleader" by locking up a Ms Hayden Panettiere in Dulbog High Security Detention Centre and now intends to use his mastery of the time-space continuum to go back and shoot/translocate/nuke/electrocute the man responsible for the parlous state of the Albian economy, a shadowy figure known to the Prime Minister as "Sylar" and to many Albians as Bragdny Door.

(1) Well, unaccountably if you ignore the fact that I'm currently stuck in a cellar filled with barrels of potato-based alcohol and only the Shadow Finance Minister for company(2).
(2) See The Man Who Wasn't There et al.
(3) A weekly event which not only forces a scintilla of accountability from the executive but would also appear to have been the basis for the much-missed British TV show, It's a Knockout.

Gone Plokkijing

Apologies to my readers for the lack of an update today. I'm afraid that I have been too wrapped-up in Albia's plokkij match against India (a scientist acquaintance informs me that the Albian plokkij team is the only entity on this planet capable of collapsing faster than the Albian pahnd has done against the euro) not to mention trips to Wottat(1)'s closing down sale and to keep up with the news.

(1) see Shopping Tripped.

Doubt of the Benefits

I have already briefly alluded to the moves by Albia's Work and Pensions Minister, Jammi Purstlypz, to cut down the country's ever-increasing benefits roll by reducing the numbers not in work. Yesterday saw those plans being fleshed out in the government's new brahn paper(1). Mr Purstlypz spent much of the day touring television studios and press rooms, assuring the mowsli-eating, Garindua types that he merely wants to assist people into work whilst insisting to the smart-uniform-and-shiny-black-boot-loving, Da Heyt-reading types that dole scum will be forced to break rocks in turn for basic rations.

Mr Purstlypz also sought to assure those of all persuasions that - following his reforms - Albia will be a Scandinavian-style model of quiet efficiency, its people (all of them young, tall and limber) happily beavering away at their valuable and satisfying work, doubtless before heading off in the evening for a quick sauna and the kind of athletic sexual intercourse that my film-going in the 1970s would suggest is the kind of thing they do a lot of in those northern climes. What concerns me here is the apparent sincerity with which Mr Purtslypz made these claims. I fear that a place alongside Prince Yusslez in the high-security wing of St Gozondor's Hospital cannot be far away.


(1) this is the equivalent of a "white paper" in the UK, ie a paper setting out government policy on a particular topic(2).
(2) given the usual content of government proposals, Albian's felt that brown was a more appropriate colour than white.

The Man Who Wasn't There

There are many mysteries in life: where do all the paperclips go to? how much wood would a woodchuck chuck? why is Adam Sandler? Yesterday, there was a new mystery to add to this number: where, on the day the Nyesti Party was launching it's "fightback"(1) on the economy, was the party's once-highly-esteemed Shadow Finance Minister, Geroj Skweeki?

As readers may be aware, Mr Skweeki was once beloved of his party and much of the media and seen as a potential rival to his old friend, party leader Bambi Nottinill. This however, was in the days before he chose to pit himself against the eminence-noire of the governing Krep Party, Piotr, now Horz, Kreepiman by indiscreetly passing on details of his Horzship's favourite over-dinner conversation(2). I need not go into details of the revenge exacted, save to say that it was swift and that Mr Skweeki now finds himself a pariah, scared to show even his face for fear of the mockery it might elicit.

Still, I am happy to say that, while other journalists were hunting high and low for any sign of Mr Skweeki - perhaps walled-up with the amontillado casks at Nyesti Party central office, or suddenly "volunteered" for top-place on the iron-maiden-cleaning rota - this humble scribe had already unearthed the truth of the situation. I can exclusively reveal that the erstwhile darling of the Nyestis is currently confined to the cellar of a well-known Albian hostelry, there to remain until such time as he is no longer an embarrassment to himself or his party. Which cellar it may be I cannot say but I can reveal that he snores something dreadful and has an irritating tendency to take all the duvet ... much to the irritation of, say, any misunderstood journalist who might happen to be hiding out in the same location.

(1) in this case, fightback should be understood as executing a rapid, if somewhat inelegant, U-turn on all those pledges of support for the government "during these difficult economic times" it made when it looked like the government's coat-tails were the place to find votes.
(2) namely the fact that Horz Kreepiman's dear comrade and now boss, Bragdny Door, was, in his Horzships opinion, "a socially maladapted waste of skin with all the abilities of an unusually backward amoeba".

The Albia Who's Who: Geroj Skweeki

The Nyesti Party's shadow finance minister. He rose to this high estate despite manifold disadvantages, not least of which are a tragic resemblance, even in his late-30s, to a spotty-teenager (some speculate that his mother, Lady Skweeki, was frightened by the sight of a Currys sales assistant while on an ill-advised trip to Britain during her pregnancy) and the fact that complications during his birth (themselves the product of the silver spoon in his mouth with which he was congenitally afflicted) led to his voice box being removed and replaced with one of those toys that make a sound like a bleating sheep when turned over.

Despite these disadvantages and the dreadful handicaps attendant on being the heir to a Horzship, the young Geroj managed to struggle on to study at some of Albia's most expensive schools before going on to Cowbrijj, where he became friends with such Nyesti luminaries as Ygor Bumblah and Bambi Nottinill. From there it was but a short step - via a two-week vacation post as assistant junior stamp-licker to give himself a grounding in business - to a position within the Nyesti Party.

As Shadow Finance Minister he made a name for himself by winning the hearts and minds of millions of Albian voters by promising to remove the terror of inheritance tax from several hundred extremely rich people and anyone in danger of being left a castle in their will. Then, tragically, he undid all this good work by taking a pop at shadowy Krep Party Svengali, Piotr Kreepiman, as a result of which he found his reputation in tatters, pictures of himself in plus fours plastered all over the Albian media and a Russian oligarch's severed head in his bed.

Cowbrijj

The most ancient university in Albia, and one of the world's leading academic institutions. Since the late 12th Century, students have been coming to Cowbrijj to gain the benefit of its academic rigour and very reasonable bar prices. The favoured seat of higher education for the ruling classes for eight hundred years, wherever you find a significant Albian institution there also will you find a large number of Cowbrijj alumni, usually making the most of their lavish expense accounts.

Foreign News

There is never any need to wonder if it is a slow news day in Albia. All one needs to do is turn to the news in one's paper or on one's TV, radio or - indeed - intertube and check what the lead item is. If the lead item is a foreign news story, then one can instantly tell that there is nothing, absolutely nothing, of interest to the news media going on in Albia: no politicians have said something nasty about other politicians haircuts, no minor celebrities have got slightly tipsy at a party, no food manufacturers have commissioned a dodgy survey proving that pizza/hamburger/potato-based alcohol or whatever is a cure for cancer.

Judging by my scanning of the news, such was the case this weekend, for the story leading all the bulletins was that of Albia's former colony, Zamosa, whose present ruler seems bent on turning his country into the kind of post-apocalyptic wasteland normally associated with early 80s TV dramas. It takes a special kind of leadership ability to make a system where a bunch of heavily armed foreigners turn up in your country, nick 95% of it and then pay you somewhat less than a pittance to work on it(1) seem preferable to present conditions but that is what has been achieved in Zamosa. Even Albia's Prime Minister, Bragdny Door, has been insisting that something be done about the country immediately, though given his usual record that will probably mean the setting up of a committee to look into the possibility of doing not very much in about 18 months time.

(1) Despite the opinion of the gentleman at the bar beside me, this is not "exactly like them Russian oligarchs wot's everywhere in Albia these days", partly because Albians' prime purpose in taking over Zamosa wasn't to buy the country's football teams.

I DNA Ken

Albians are, in general, not particularly keen on "Europe"(1), which - despite Albia being a part of that continent - they usually regard as a dread land, peopled only by unwashed garlic-peddlers, goose-stepping Nazis and hordes of would-be cheap plumbers and/or benefit scroungers. Indeed, for years Albia has attempted to gain vengeance for the simple fact of the continent's existence, usually by sending hordes of Albian youth to Europe's most beautiful tourist spots to get drunk, throw up everywhere and have loud, swift and unprotected sex with each other on top of the nearest cenotaph, town hall step or church altar.

The latest bone Albians have to pick is the European Court's decision that the Albian practice of DNA-fingerprinting every citizen whilst still in utero and keeping the DNA on file until a little after the heat death of the universe is "a breach of human rights" and "could not be necessary in a democratic society". The news has already been greeted with understandable shock and disappointment by Home Minister, Jerki Kleevij, who has announced that this will be a dreadful blow to policing in this country, threatening as it does the government's plans (a) to observe every citizen throughout their life right down to the detail of their sub-atomic particles and (b) to clone an army of super-soldiers from the best of the nation's DNA.


(1) In Albian "Yewrupp".

Money Matters

Somehow, in my earlier report of the events in Albia's Parliament, I managed to omit news of Prime Minister Bragdny Door's latest cunning plan to save the nation from the economic fires: he has announced that he has arranged with the banks (most of which, thanks to massive government bail-outs, I and my fellow tax-payers apparently now own) that "hard-working households" will be able to defer a proportion interest payments on their mortgages should they get into financial difficulties.

This is, of course, marvellous news, though I am left to wonder a little about the details. For instance, am I a household? At the moment, I am, if anything, a cellar-hold(1) and that only temporarily. Even if I were to qualify, the question arises as to whether I am hardworking. I know I apply myself to the task of reporting as best I can, but can a day spent drinking in the cellar of a pub whilst waiting to overhear a bit of gossip really count? And after all that, what on Earth does the PM mean by "a proportion"? I suspect, should my finances suffer, my only alternative will be to pop into one of those banks I own and see if I can find something in the petty cash drawer.


(1) see First They Came for the Shadow Ministers.

No Fault Liability

Those of you still waiting with bated breath to learn what happened yesterday in the Albian parliament can breathe again, first in a sigh of relief and then in one of disappointment. The statement from the speaker, Bagwynd Baffuld, which I had hoped might inject a bit of excitement into the day, proved to be something of a damp squib. In a carefully-prepared speech, which Mr Baffuld read in his usual style - namely that of a small child struggling through a Janet and John book(1) - he made it plain that it was absolutely not his fault that the police were able to launch a dawn raid on the Grevvitren last week as part of their investigations into alleged leaks from the Home Office. Not only that, he was also in the happy position of being able to identify the true culprits, who turned out to be just about everybody except Mr Baffuld, including the Sargent-yt-Armz(4), the clerk of the house, the whole of the Blizstan police force and individuals identified only as "Old Uncle Tom Cobbley and all".

Many were surprised at the Sargent-yt-Armz's failure to insist that the police obtain a warrant before being allowed to burst onto the hallowed floor of the parliament, chiefly because hitherto it had been thought impossible to be unaware of police procedural requirements in a country where "cop shows" and "detective stories" seem to make up a good 60% of the television schedules.

As to the Queen's Speech itself, there was much emphasis on the Government's wish to ensure the stability of the economy. Given that the same government was placing much the same emphasis on stability immediately before the economy ran helter-skelter towards and then over the edge of a very steep cliff, one has to wonder if this is altogether a good sign. Luckily there was a cunning wheeze at the heart of the Speech, namely Work and Pensions Minister Jammi Purstlypz's plan to reduce the benefits roll by shooting any claimant who fails a lie-detector test and/or water-boarding session - just the kind of radical thinking that the Krep Party has been so famed for ever since it came to power.

(1) Or, if you prefer, in the manner of Julie Graham delivering her lines in the BBC's Bonekickers or Survivors(2)
(2) Thanks to the Bor yt Hunza's marvellous (and doubtless illegally installed) satellite television service I now get to watch quality TV from back in Blighty(3).
(3) And also Bonekickers and Survivors.
(4) An officer of the parliament. The position is traditionally occupied by the clumsiest participant on ABC's version of Celebrity Come Dancing(5)
(5) For the benefit of the American ambassador to Albia, Mr Pazdan, I should point out that this is the TV programme known in the USA as Dancing with the Stars.(6)
(6) Also for his benefit, I should point out that the country is Albia not Albionia, however loudly he may assert the contrary.(7)
(7) Please don't bomb us.

What a State Opening

Today sees the State Opening of Albia's Parliament, an event draped - like so many in Albia - in odd ceremonies left lying around from Albia's history, rather like the dusty remnants of party streamers from New Year's Eve 1999, still stubbornly attached to that too-high-to-reach corner of the sitting room window. Those seeking a full description of the normal course of events, including the role of such colourful figures as the Yezmin of Queen Dowdi's Guard and Hooj Deeldoh, are directed here.

The state opening is, I must admit, not the sort of thing that would normally cause the average Albian to stop scanning the tabloids for the latest update on "I'm a Nonentity, Get Me Out of Here" or cease scouring the internet for "Britney Spears + upskirt", but today promises to be a little different. In fact, if the whispers I've been hearing are correct(1), there is even the prospect of things "kicking off". It seems the Nyesti Party, led by this column's old friend Dumazd Dumazi, may even seek to disrupt this grand occasion to protest at the decision of the Parliamentary authorities - led by the Woofferantweeta (lit, "Speaker"), Bagwynd Baffuld - to allow the police to enter the parliament, go through shadow minister Omen Bloo's drawers and watch the odd parliamentary private secretary falling down the stairs (more background can be found in First They Came for the Shadow Ministers). As to what will actually happen, who can say. Watch this space.


(1) admittedly, these whispers come from a few drunk BGs in the public bar of the Bor yt Hunza(2)
(2) in whose cellar I am most definitely not hiding (see First They Came for the Shadow Ministers)

The Albian Who's Who: Bagwynd Baffuld

Mr Baffuld is the current Woofferantweeta (lit. speaker) of the Zkum, Albia's House of Commons, and thus the presiding officer of the lower house of the parliament or Grevvitren.

Being both a politician in a senior position and a former member of the Noy Krep party(1), Mr Baffuld is, of course, a native of Dipfryde. He hails from the country's second city, Marrzbah.

By long tradition, on his appointment the Woofferantweeta is dragged to his seat in the Zkum. This ceremony was once supposed to indicate the reluctance with which the role of Woofferantweeta was assumed, in the case of Mr Baffuld, however, it was believed to be necessary on the grounds that he might not know the way.

Mr Baffuld has distinguished himself as Woofferantweeta in many ways, chief among them his apparently absolute lack of knowledge of the rules and procedures of parliament. A gentle soul, with a grasp of reality to match, he is usually content to sit in his (self-chosen) ceremonial garb of farmer's smock and floppy hat, a piece of straw dangling from his mouth as he whiles away the long hours between snoozes by playing peek-a-boo with the parliamentary clerks or singing some of the more straightforward nursery rhymes quietly to himself.

(1) By tradition, the Woofferantweeta gives up his former party allegiances on taking up his new post.(2)
(2) Whether this has been mentioned to Mr Baffuld is a matter of frequent debate.

Who is Hugo Kent?

Though modesty would ordinarily forbid me from devoting an article to myself, some readers have asked that I provide a more detailed biography. I am happy to comply with this request, though I regret I do not feel it would be proper to supply either the spare pair of my underpants or the *ahem* "intimate" pictures that were sought in addition.

So, who then is Hugo Kent? Perhaps the best way to explain myself would be to provide you with a little text provided by my erstwhile literary agent, suitably parsed.

"Hugo Kent is an award-winning British journalist."

Absolutely true. I've been a journalist ever since the day back in '63 that I wrote my first article, a searing indictment of road traffic management in rural Leicestershire, penned for the estimable house magazine of The Tufty Club. As to the question of awards, I am the proud possessor of a Bronze Swimming Certificate, signed by the assistant deputy head (fitness) of the Leicestershire Education Authority himself, a Grade I piano certificate and a Blue Peter Badge(1).

"A freelance foreign correspondent, he first came to wider attention with his on-the-spot reporting of the Watergate scandal."

Also true. I think it's fair to say that few other reporters gained the kind of access to the White House that I did, though, in fairness, few other reporters had wangled a summer job as executive assistant junior Presidential shoe-polisher(2). Nonetheless, it was I who first exclusively revealed Mr Nixon's words at the moment he decided to resign, "You know, Rosie(3), I think I'm going to have to ... oh for [EXPLETIVE DELETED]'s sake, Kent, can't you even shine a [EXPLETIVE DELETED] shoe properly, you useless sack of [EXPLETIVE DELETED]?"(4)

"Since that time he has reported from all over the world ..."

Generally as far away from the UK as my employer can afford to send me.

"... been nominated for many of journalism's most prestigious awards ..."

Usually by drunken colleagues, for a joke.

"... and spoken to some of the world's greatest leaders."

At least, all the ones I managed to bump into in bars. Mainly Boris Yeltsin.

"He is currently the only foreign correspondent working in the glorious country of Albia, from where he reports on a regular basis."

Lop off the words "glorious" and "on a regular basis" and I think that's pretty much fair.

As to my personal life, in which I know many of my readers take an interest, I regret to say that my dear wife, Ylatea, and I are no longer together. She and our daughter, Vlotara, still reside in the family home, though now with Ylatea's new husband, my old friend Vlotar, who did so much to see us both through the crisis in our marriage. It is a mark of Vlotar's friendship and Ylatea's continuing affection for me that both are content to allow me to pay a little something towards Vlotara's upkeep (and that of Vlotara's pony, chauffeur, chef and pool attendant) and that Vlotar has been happy for me to type this blog in his cybercafe and, on occasion, to house myself in the cybercafe's broom cupboard, a privilege for which he charges me only marginally-increased rates.


(1) the last of these, admittedly, not actually my own.
(2) back in those days the only vetting involved in getting such a low-level White House post was having to tell a large man in dark glasses that you weren't "a goddamn commie". These days I understand one has to be able to account for all of one's movements for the past 20 years and be unafraid of lengthy examinations involving the use of rubber gloves
(3) Rose Mary Woods, Nixon's secretary.
(4) why it was that the President insisted on saying "EXPLETIVE DELETED" rather than simply swearing I confess I still don't understand to this day.

Albia: The Basics

It can be difficult to get to know another country. Happily, my British readers should have relatively few problems familiarising themselves with the Unified Kingdom of Greater Albia which is really very similar to Great Britain, once you get to know it, although admittedly even worse.


The Countries of Albia

As the Roman Emperor Claudius put it in his record of the conquest of Albia, "A-a-a-albia est o-omnis d-d-d-ivisa in p-p-partes qu-qu-quattuor", the four parts of the country being Albia itself, which makes up the northern and central parts of the country; mountainous Dipfryde, to the south; the many-valleyed Principality of Taphs to the east; and, lastly, the often conflict-ridden Trubbld, itself the southern part of Albia's neighbouring island, Diddly.

The Cities of Albia

The Capital of Greater Albia is Blizsta, a congested and barely functioning metropolis, home to nearly seven million desperate and embittered human beings, one of whom I am happy proud forced to be. Dipfryde's capital is Cremdullacrem, often referred to as "the Athens of the South", though only by people with no knowledge of either history or Athens, while the city of Llargardup is capital to Taphs and the scene of a thousand hen and stag parties each night. The capital of Trubbld is Bomd.

Other notable cities include Albia's second largest conurbation Orfulbad in the country's east midlands, the south-eastern port of Skowz (once birthplace of world-famous Albian pop group Da Eerwigz and now a bit of a dump) and city of Kutnmyls (home to Kutnmyls United Futborl Klub, usually referred as Da Redd Bastidz), the northern coastal resorts of Ghei and Zemetri, the ancient university city of Cowbrijj and the old south-western port of Titzoot (many of whose female inhabitants still prefer the city's traditional dress of fake tan and string bikini, despite Titzoot's perenially inclement weather).

The Constitution and Royal Family

Like Britain, Albia is a constitutional monarchy. The present monarch is Queen Dowdi II, a woman regarded by all Albians as a paragon of kindness and virtue unstained by any fault (though given the way her children Prince Yusslez, Prince Handzy, Princess Naffe and Prince Hammi turned out, I find this somewhat hard to believe).

The heir to the throne is the 60-year-old Prince Yusslez, who has spent the last 40 years waiting to ascend the throne in the usual manner - ie over Queen Dowdi's dead body.

Political Parties

While Her Majesty acts, in essence, as a figurehead for the nation (and occasional constitutional figleaf), the business of ruling the country is left to a Government selected from members of the largest party in da Zkum, the lower house of Albia's parliament da Grevvitren.

There are three main political parties: the current party of government, the Noy Krep Proti (lit. "the new not very good party") led by Bragdny Door, the Nyesti Proti (lit. the nasty party) led by Bambi Nottinill and the Drid Proti (lit. "the third party"), led by Bambilite Hoo. The average Albian has about as much time for these parties as they would for a door-to-door syphilis salesman.

Industry and Economy

The Albian currency is da pahnd, its symbol "£".

Albians assure me that their country used to have some industry, though in my time here the main commercial activities (other than the sale of potato-based alcohol) would appear to have been house-buying, coffee-making and pole-dancing.

The main centre of economic activity for many years has been that part of Blizsta known as da Zhiti. Here besuited bankers (or "Zhiti-boys") have bestridden the economic globe like colossi, forcing the globe to glance up at the bankers' colossal wads before bowing down in fear and amazement and worshipping them as modern gods.

Sadly, it would now appear that these economic Apollos were actually using all that fearful and amazed bowing and worshipping as an opportunity to pick the globe's pockets and then award themselves multi-million pahnd bonuses on top. The upshot of all this is that the globe has been left on the edge of financial catastrophe, Albians have been left unable to pay for their homes, buy a coffee or afford a pole to dance around and the bankers themselves have been left with a lot of nice cars, "little places in Mustique" and several trillion pahnds each in assorted tax havens round the globe.


Culture and Media

To the average Albian, "culture" is something to do with yoghurt. There are two main recreations: drinking (which is done frequently and preferably to excess) and watching television. The most popular television programmes of the day include the ABC's Dr Vot and Strictly Blow Football, ETV's Da Eck Faktor and I'm a Nonentity, Get Me Out of Here and Kanel Flaw's schedule-devouring and intelligence-draining reality programme Beeg Seesta. It is probably depression induced by television watching that encourages so much drinking.

News media cover the usual spectrum of opinion. At the bottom end are the so-called puce-top tabloids, including Da Dul and Da Tytz. Middle market tabloids include Da Heyt and Da Zennofob. At the top end one finds Da Garindua, Da Pijjonpost, Da Relyant and Da Murdok. Popular magazines include OhNo! and Tepid, both of which concentrate - like the tabloids - on the sort of news the Albians are really interested in, ie analysis-free, low-level celebrity gossip and body fascism. Again, this fare may also help to explain Albians' fondness for erasing all thought with the aid of potato-based alcohol.

The celebrities themselves are the usual Hollywood "megastars" (surely I can't be alone in thinking, pace Norma Desmond, that it wasn't just the pictures that got small), pop stars and sporting stars, plus the black dwarfs of the celebrity firmament that are the former participants in reality TV shows, topless models and the foul-mouthed children of Hearing Aid and Live 9 organiser Zwari Mowthov. As my readers may well have anticipated by now, the presence of such celebs merely provides one more reason for the average Albian to seek a stiffening potato-based drink at any time after wakening.


So, there you have it. Albia, a country of contrasts ... and alcoholics.

For more information about Albia, readers are directed to The Albia Factbook and The Albia Gazetteer A-M and N-Z.